It’s what’s for dinner …

Dinner time is a daily 30-minute window when I am compelled to straight-up punch my kids in the face.  If only they knew the effort I put into meals, they would never sit at my table and frown, gag, whimper or otherwise bitch ($0.25) about my food, because my food is fucking ($0.25) delicious.  I’m not serving them tripe soup or calf’s liver, people.  I watch The Food Network, like, twenty-four-seven and I’m bringing that magic right back to my kitchen. Every. Damn. Night. Continue reading

They’re breaking all my shit!

Not a day goes by that my kids don’t destroy something; sometimes it’s my shit ($0.25).  More often, it’s my will to live.  And they don’t just break things that need to be replaced.  They break things that need to be repaired. Like drywall.  Plumbing.  Cars.  Limbs.  We spend twenty-five percent of our free time shopping for necessities and another twenty-five fixing things that our kids have trashed. Continue reading

Screw the Zoo …

It was Sunday morning and I had spent nearly all day Saturday doing shit and mostly ignoring my kids so the guilt hit me square in the nose the second I woke up.  I thought a grand gesture was in order and – you know –  I’m not really sure why because no where in my “How To Raise Kids” rule book does it say anything about my obligation to entertain them with fun and interesting things twenty-four-seven.  I blame Facebook, Pinterest and my kids’ precious little faces for the ever-present mom-guilt that plagues me.   Continue reading